


Where the Heartache Began

by Ikkleosu



Category: Peter Kay's Car Share (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 23:46:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11839545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ikkleosu/pseuds/Ikkleosu
Summary: The day Charlotte moves out, John's dad has words of wisdom for him.





	Where the Heartache Began

**Author's Note:**

> Something a bit different. A warning, Kayleigh doesn't actually appear in this story - as the summary suggests. Dedicated to Fi for her 50th birthday. Sorry it's so late.

“You know you only hurt yourself out of spite  
I guess you'd rather be a martyr tonight  
That's your decision  
But I'm not below  
Anybody I know  
If there's a chance of resurrecting a love  
I'm not above going back to the start  
To find out where the heartache began” - An Innocent Man by Billy Joel

“Hiya son, how are you?” 

“I'm, fine Dad.” John sighed at the reassuring sound of his dad’s voice. It was always a comfort to hear his calm, deep tones. Especially today. 

“Aye, and how are you really?”

And there it was. His dad could cut through to the truth in two seconds flat. 

“I’m okay, Dad, honestly. Charlotte took the last of her stuff in her car, and she gave me her key back. She wasn’t exactly friendly but it was okay.” It had only been just over a week since she’d heard his every doubt, complaint and negative thought about her played back on their answering machine, but it had seemed like months. She had very quickly found someplace else to live and John was grateful for that. Still, he had dreaded today.

“Hmmm.” His Dad didn’t sound convinced. “I think you should come over tonight for a chat.”

“No, honestly, Dad-” 

“Your Mum’s going to some make-up party thing with your Auntie Sandra, I’ll be all on me lonesome. Come and keep your old Dad company, eh?” 

John sighed again. There was no arguing with him at the best of times, and certainly not when he thought there was something wrong. “Okay, I’ll be round about half seven.”

“Good. You bring the beers, I’ll book the strippers.”

“Dad!”

“What?! I said you bring the beers, I’ll wear me slippers… filthy mind you young uns. See ya later.”

At 7.30 almost on the dot, John let himself into the house. “It’s just me,” he called as he entered the lobby and was embraced by the smells and sights of his youth. The keyhook in the shape of Tenerife from their holiday in 1990 hung on the wall with his Dad’s keys dangling from their football shaped keyring. The smell of Mr Sheen and coffee seemed impregnated in the walls. It was home, and a sensation that was so welcome after the last week. If he was being honest, the house he’d bought with Charlotte had never really felt like home, but now it was a physical testament of how much he had messed up. He was glad to be out of it for the night.

“Hiya son, your mum’s already out. Have you had your tea?” His dad called from the living room, as John entered.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He walked over to his Dad’s armchair and his dad stood up and embraced him as John asked, “How you feeling today?”

“Ach, you know…” It was all he ever said when John asked, he’d only get the real story from his Mum. From their 40 years together, she knew better than her husband how he was feeling and would relay to Paul and John if it was a good day or not. Without her there, he couldn’t assume either way. “Anyway, so what did you have for your tea?”

“Eh,” John scratched his head as he plonked himself down on the beige velour sofa. “Beef stew and dumplings.”

“Cracking!” John’s dad clapped his hands and smacked his lips.

“It was only a ready meal from work. New range, meals for one. Thought I’d better get used to it. Not that I ate much of it, not really hungry.”

“Pah! Better than what I had. Some cardboard and dirt crap that’s meant to be good for you.” John’s father, George looked utterly disgusted at the memory. “She made me eat mackerel on Wednesday! Mackerel! I’m surprised you can’t still smell it. House was stinking like Old Tam’s boat yard.”

“Mum’s just trying to help you, you’re meant to be on a healthy diet. Oily fish are good for you.”

George waved dismissively. “Just give me a spoonful of cod liver oil and malt, that’s what my mum used to do. And leave me my steak and kidney puddings.”

John shook his head. Once again, no point in arguing. He picked up the evening paper from the arm of the sofa and started glancing over it.

“So, how was it?” George pressed, leaning forward in his armchair.

“I told you, it was fine.” John didn’t look up from the paper, knowing his father could read his face like a book. And truthfully there wasn't much to say. His dad had heard the main thrust of the collapse of his relationship first hand. Once Charlotte had heard it all, the die was cast. It wasn't like he could deny it.

“And what did she say?”

“Nothing.” 

George sat in silence, and John could feel his eyes boring into him. Eventually he could take it no more. He looked up and saw his dad waiting expectantly. “Well, not nothing… but not much. She wasn’t chatty.”

“Well, no I can imagine…” 

“She said she hoped I was happy, I don’t think it was exactly a blessing.” John skipped the obscenity in Charlotte’s parting words. His dad didn't need to hear that.

“Maybe not, but the point is you will be happy, and so will she. It’s for the best.” George leaned back in his chair, happy that John had opened up a little.

“It doesn't feel like it… all I feel is like a pile of day old sick.” The looks Charlotte had given him since the moment he came home and found her had been burned into his psyche. He felt like he’d never feel good about himself again. 

“Yeah, well, and that’s to your credit.”

“Eh? Why?” John looked at his Dad with perplextion, but George didn't make eye contact.

“You feel guilty. That's what that feeling is. That cold wind blowing through your stomach. Guilt. Guilt cos you hurt that girl, and it's good you feel that.”

“You think?!” John was stunned. His dad was never one to sugar coat things, but he hadn't expect him to reinforce his worst feelings about himself.

“Course it is. Shows you’re a decent fella. You give a crap. Too many men break girls hearts soon as look at 'em, and they give it as much thought as they do yesterday’s morning shit. And more time!”

“I don't feel very decent,” John put down the newspaper and rubbed his hands anxiously down his thighs. He had felt anything but decent for some time. He’d felt like those lads at school he’d hated, the ones who’d keep a girl hanging on just so they weren't alone, or bored, then dump her as soon as something more interesting came along. Not that something interesting had come along, in fact he doubted it ever would again. Love was a spider's web he didn't want to get tangled up in, not if it made you feel like this.

“Well, you are, or she wouldn't have been with you in the first place. You’ll feel better in time, believe me.”

“I don't know what I feel…” John questioned, looking at the ceiling. He hadn't been able to put his finger on his feelings for Charlotte for a long time. Was it love? He really doubted it in recent months but the way he felt now, maybe it was. 

“What you feel is thirsty…” George looked at John with a glint in his eye. “Go and put the kettle on and make us a brew.”

John gave a chuckle and stood up.

“And bring us a Penguin to go with it!” George called after him, as John vanished into the kitchen.

“No!”

“I’m allowed a biscuit, son, have a heart! What's the point in life if you can't have a biscuit with your cup of tea?”

John shook his head silently as he switched on the kettle and pulled out the tea bags.

“Don't suppose there’s any Trios is there?” George called as John dumped a teabag into the Cannon and Ball mug.

“Trios? What year is this? 1985? They haven't made them in an age,” John shouted back as he filled the mugs with boiling water.

“Bollocks! They sell them in the Pound Shop. Check in the back of the cupboard.”

John pulled out the biscuit barrel shaped like a monkey and stuck a Hobnob in his mouth - out of habit more than desire - as he raked out a Penguin for his dad and a KitKat for himself. A search of the cupboard did find a pack of Trios behind the Pot Noodles. “Well, bugger me,” he said quietly at the discovery and took a biscuit from the packet.

“Told ya!” George declared as John dumped the biscuits in his hand, and placed his mug on the little side table beside his Dad’s armchair. It was already overflowing with a puzzle book and pen, his reading glasses, the boxes of his medication, and the remote control caddy John had made in second year. It still had a chunk out the corner where he’d dropped it on the walk home from school.

“Trio!” George sang with glee as he unwrapped the biscuit.

John just shook his head and smiled as his dad bit into the biscuit with a look of sheer delight. He loved that about his dad, that he always took such great joy in little things. He wanted to emulate it more, relax and not get stressed out over such little things, especially when his dad was always there shrugging off the big things. John snapped his KitKat in half and watched his dad take a slurp of his boiling hot tea. He always had an asbestos mouth.

“Ah that's the spot,” George said, putting his tea back down. “Now see, that Charlotte could never make a good cup of tea, so you don't have to put up with that piss in a cup now.”

John looked aghast at his Dad’s statement. “I thought you adored her?”

George took another slurp of tea and shrugged. “I’m just trying to help you look on the bright side. And I liked her ‘cos I thought she made you happy. Now I know that's not the case, I’m indifferent.”

John looked horrified. “I was worried you’d be mad, say I’d thrown away a cracker or something. I thought I’d let you down.” It had been a big part of why he hadn't confronted his own feelings for so long. He knew seeing him settled with a good woman, and the prospect of grandkids looming was all his mum and dad wanted for him. And with his dad’s health, he’d thought Charlotte was really the chance to give them all what they wanted. He thought given time he’d want it for himself too. The thought of letting them down had been as hard as hurting Charlotte.

It was George's turn to look horrified. “You daft apeth! Let me down? You’d have let me down if you married a girl you didn't love. If she’s not the one for you, she’s not the one, doesn't matter if I think she’s Bolton’s answer to Lady Diana. I’m not marrying her. Look, she was a nice enough lass, don't get me wrong, but that's all she was - nice.”

John gulped on his tea. “Isn't nice a good thing?”

“Not when it comes to love, it’s not. I mean, would describe your mum as nice?” 

John spluttered at that. No, nice was not a word that came to mind when he thought of his mum. Fierce, lively, aggressively loving, could give a bulldog chewing a wasp a run for its money on any given day… but not “nice”.”No, I guess not.”

“Aye exactly,” George said and looked up at his wedding photo on the mantelpiece. “Nice gets boring very fast. Nice is what you want from a sofa, not a wife. You want someone that makes you Feel, really feel… what did Charlotte make you feel? And don't say horny.”

John screwed up his face. “I wasn't going to… I dunno… comfortable?”

George have an unceremonious guffaw. “Christ son, we’re back to sofas!”

“Well, I don't know,” John said, his feelings put out at his Dad's mocking of his emotions. It was okay for him, George had no problems opening his heart. He was utterly unashamed of his emotions - John had seen him crying at everything from the darts to Crufts. It wasn't so easy for John. Somehow expressions of emotions made him cringe so hard he’d nearly break his teeth. It all seemed so messy and embarrassing. “I don't know what love is meant to feel like…”

George shook his head sadly. “It’s not meant to feel like a pair of old slippers anyway. It's meant to make you feel alive, overflowing with thoughts and feelings…” He sat forward in his chair and pointed to John. “I’m not saying all those feelings are good. They can be ugly and angry and sad…”

John threw his hands to the ceiling. “Oh well thanks Dad that makes me feel better. That's what I feel like now, so maybe it was real love? And really if this is love, what's the bloody point? It's not worth it.” 

“If you can say that then I know it weren't really love, son. Look I am not saying what happened was ideal... it's a shame and Charlotte didn't deserve to find out like that, but it would have all come out in the wash. You weren't in love with her, son. Love, even when it hurts, you know it was worth it.” George was impassioned, his face alive with intent.

“Maybe this love, whatever it was, is all I am capable of...” John sighed. He thought it was love with Charlotte, thought that feeling of “this is okay” was what it should be like. He never expected to feel fireworks and poetry, it just wasn't him. 

“I’m not having that!” For the first time a hint of anger broke through in George's voice. “The lad that sobbed all the way home from the pictures when he saw Superman, ‘cos Lois Lane died is capable of real love.”

“I don't remember that…” John racked his brain trying to claw hold of the memory or even the feeling. “Hang on, doesn't Superman spin the world backwards so she doesn't die?”

“Aye,” George smiled again, all signs of anger gone like clouds clearing the sky. “That didn't matter though, you were smart enough to ask if Superman remembered her dying. And he did. That broke your heart. You understood love then.”

John sat stunned, a very vague feeling of a memory teasing his brain.

“Here, speaking of films, pass that paper over…” George held out his hand expectantly until John handed him the paper. He put on his reading glasses and began flicking through the pages.

“What is it?” John asked, and was met with muttering and page turning. 

“Here we go,” George declared and folded the paper back on itself. “Right, have you seen…” He paused as he squinted at something on the page. “Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone?”

“Yeah, it was alright… later ones are better…”

“Good.” George put the paper down and took his glasses off again. “So have I. It’s on just now.” 

“Eh?” John was once again lost to his father's train of thought. “So, that's that sorted then? Any other films over the past 30 years you want to know we’ve both seen?”

“Div! Your mum will be home in a couple of hours, and she'll want to know what we did all evening. If we let on there was emotions and talking, she’ll only want to get involved and I think it's best all round if she doesn't, eh?’

His dad was right. While George was a prodder, his wife was more head on and like a terrier she wouldn't drop a topic til she had exhausted it - and you with it.

“So we’ll say we watched the film…” George continued. “Now is that the one with the giant snake?”

“No, that's the second one. This one’s got the troll in the bathroom, and the giant chess board,” John replied finally getting with the program. 

“Oh aye, and what's-his-face is under Ali Bongo’s turban on the back of his head.”

John gave a gentle laugh, well he was close enough. “Quirrel. Yup.”

“Sorted.” George folding his hands across his chest in smug satisfaction.

For a few minutes they sat in companionable silence, the noise of tea and biscuits being consumed the only sound until George spoke again.

“You want to know how I knew your mum was the one for me?”

John drained his cup and put it down. “When you tasted her sausage stew?”

George smiled ruefully. “Nah, although that certainly helped… No, it was after we’d been courting a couple of months. I was working in Halfords, and every pay day I went down to the newsagents and got “Build your own guitar". 

“Build your own guitar? Like one of those model rip-off things? £1.99 per month and then in tiny writing normal price £8.99 collect all 517 parts?” John gave a laugh but George frowned.

“No, you eejit. It was a magazine telling you how to build your own guitar. They were all the rage at the time. Anyway, I got the guitar one and I started buying all the bits. I didn’t need to buy the wood, your Uncle RIchard procured it from his work, and in return I got him a few bits and bobs from Halfords. But boy, I had to work hard on that guitar . It was a labour of love. I spent hour sanding, buffing, oiling that wood, getting everything perfect. Got the strings, and the frets and it was like science putting it all together…”

He took on a wistful look as he stared off into the distance with nostalgia, as John looked on mistified. “I don’t remember you having a guitar… I only thought you played the piano?”

George snapped out of his reverie and gave his son an irritated look. “Alright, alright I’m getting to that part, give us a chance… I’m setting up the story here. God you’re always in a rush, you. Anyway, after about four months I finished it. And even though I say so myself  
it was a work of art. Stained red, and varnished to within an inch of its life. It was shining like-”

“A national guitar!” John interrupted but his Dad just looked at him like he was nuts.

“Eh?”

“Shining like a national guitar… you know, Paul Simon?” John’s attempt to explain the joke fell utterly flat as his Dad just looked at him blankly. For a moment John was transported back to a million conversations he’d had with Charlotte where he’d make a joke, a pop culture references, and she’d look at him just like his dad was right now. Like he was talking Greek. No wonder it didn't work out. “Nevermind.”

“It shined like a cue ball is what I was going to say,” George continued pointedly. “It was my pride and joy, so of course I wanted to show it off to my new bird. So one Friday I invited your mum round to mine to look at my etchings.” He gave a suggestive wink which made John screw him face up again, though he knew his dad had done it deliberately to elicit a response. Sometimes he liked to play along. “And so she turned up, looking foxy in this mini skirt and clinging baby pink jumper…”

John held up his hands in protest. “Woah woah this isn't going to be a sex story is it? Cos I don't want to bring up me tea.”

George rolled his eyes. “No it is not… but if it was, I could tell you things that would make your hair curl…”

John fake gagged at the very thought. 

“And teach you a thing or two…” George shook his head. “You didn't invent sex you know.”

“Oh I know that,” John returned, his repulsion forgotten. “If i had invented it I would have done it a lot sooner.”

“Me too.” 

Father and son both cracked up laughing at the shared joke and all too similar experience with the fairer sex.

“So your mother came over and I am showing off my beautifully crafted guitar and she was suitably impressed, let me tell you. I rested it on my desk chair while we…” George paused for dramatic effect and raised an eyebrow at John who was narrowing his eyes at him. “... talked politics. Eventually your mother got up to go to the lav and she had on these ridiculous platform sandals, she takes one step twists her ankle, reaches out to steady herself knocks the guitar on to the floor and as she lunged forward to stop herself falling… crunch… she steps right in it.”

John’s face filled with suitable horror at the mental image. “No!” 

“It was wrecked. Utterly destroyed. All my work down the swanny. And your mother went to pieces with it. She was sobbing and wailing, all tears and snot apologising over and over. And you know what I felt?”

“Homicidal?”

“No, all I felt was I wanted her not to feel bad. Like I just wanted her to be happy. I didn't care about that guitar I’d poured my heart into ‘cos now she had me heart and I just wanted to see her smile.” George’s face visibly softened at the memory and for a moment John could see the young face in the wedding photos on the mantlepiece, instead of the weathered, drawn face of the man in front of him. “I knew then there was nothing she could do could make me really angry at her, like she could piss on me and I’d not care.”

John frowned at his dad’s words and shook his head. “You’ve had your fair share of arguments though? Sounded pretty angry to me.”

“Ach no, that's not anger that's just irritation.” 

John made a pfft noise and sat back, something tickling his memory he was trying to grab hold off.

“I knew then all I wanted was to see her smile, make her smile every day. Everything would be okay if I could have that smile in my life,” George continued. “And one day, once things have calmed down you’ll find someone that makes you feel the same.”

For a moment a smiling face flashed through John’s mind, but it was gone before he could catch hold of the image. “I don't think I will,” he said, utterly meaning it. “I don't think I can go through this again, I don't think I want to.” 

Charlotte's anger, despair, and heartache, the words she’d said, sat like a brick in his stomach. He couldn't do that again, hurt someone he cared about like that. And even more than that he knew he couldn't go through the last few months again - the emptiness and apathy he’d felt about someone he thought he loved. He couldn't trust his own judgement. His heart was a big fat liar, best to leave it shut away from now on. 

“You can't live your life in fear, John, on your own.” 

John’s head shot up at his father’s words. There was something about them that seemed wrong, and it wasn't just that his dad rarely called him John to his face. It was something else. They seemed familiar, like deja vu or a line from a film he’d once seen. He shook his head and tried to latch on to the memory but nothing came except a creeping feeling up his spine.

“You’re not listening to me, are you? You never listen to me, what do I know I’m just an old man…” This time George’s words snapped John back into focus.

“I am, I am… what?” John said, the previous words still bouncing around his brain trying to find a connection.

“I said fear isn't a way to live your life… what's that book, your Aunty Jan was talking about it? Oh Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway, that's it. It's okay to be afraid of being hurt but you can't let it stop you living your life. I’m scared for you, son.”

The seriousness in George’s voice made John want to cry. “Scared of what? I’m fine, Dad.”

“Scared you're going to miss out on what I have, what me and your mum have, what I want you to have. And maybe I won't be here to egg you on, and make sure you don't turn turtle on love.

“Don't say that…” They knew the inevitable would happen, of course they did but he hated hearing his dad say it.

George just looked at him earnestly, resting back against his big red cushion. “It’s a fact, you can't ignore it. Maybe I’ll be here to see you waltz some lass down the aisle, but maybe I won't. I just don't want you using Charlotte - or God forbid, me - as an excuse to act like a coward.”

Though he was no Marty McFly, the word coward still ground into John in a deeply unpleasant way. To hear it coming from his Dad nearly broke his heart. “I’m not a coward, Dad,” he said, quietly, feeling about 7 years old.

“No? Then why didn't you go after her?” 

“Charlotte?” John was baffled. Here his dad had been saying he was better off without Charlotte, now he wanted to know why he hadn't gone after her. 

“No, Kayleigh, you plank! Why didn't you go after Kayleigh?” 

John broke out in a sweat and his head began to swim. “what… I don't… I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

“Yes you do. She made you happy, she told you she loved you, and you just sat there in traffic like a bloody bollard. What are you playing at? Convincing yourself it's for the best, you're saving her, saving yourself from heartache… load of bollocks…”

As George ranted on, John clung to the arm of the sofa trying to keep a grip on reality, on himself, on something. But it all seemed to be swirling around him, all but his dad’s voice which was like an arrow straight into his skull.

“It’s guilt and fear and cowardice. Hurt her? Bloody hurt her? You’ve already done that son. But you can fix it. Sort it out. Sort yourself out...You love her don't you?”

Suddenly his dad’s face was inches from his, so close John could see the fine lines around his eyes. John could do nothing but nod. He loved her. God, he loved her. In this confusion of thoughts that one was screaming out.

“Well, give yourself a chance at happiness, you fool. Let her love you. And love her back with everything you’ve got. You're a Redmond, act like one, you hear me son?”

“Dad…” John’s voice came out weak and hoarse. “What if I mess it up?”

George threw his head back and laughed. “Of course you will son, we all do. But it’ll be worth it. I promise…” He gave a wink and laughed once more.

John’s eyes shot open. His heart pounding in his ears. Sweat trickled down his face as he blinked repeatedly in the darkness. The shapes of his bedroom furniture slowly came into focus and replaced the images in his mind of his parents living room. He squinted at his alarm clock. 1.21. Well, of course it was.

He rolled onto his back, his bed creaking and chasing away the last echoing memories of his dad’s voice. He stared up at the ceiling in the gloom. 

“Okay Dad, I’m listening.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by my mum telling she'd had a dream that started out as an actual memory and then completely changed.


End file.
